No Regrets
by Cha Oseye Tempest ThrainGaia
Summary: FORMATTING PROBLEMS FIXED! What if you had done that thing you always regreted not doing? How would your life be different? The crew of Enterprise gets the opportunity to find out. Rated 'R' for language.
1. Melissa

A/N: Okay, you thought we were scary apart . . . now we're together. Though this point is, of course, debatable, considering there is a high likelihood that we are actually the same person in two separate bodies. But you can be together with yourself, right?

Please don't confuse this with Gaia's story, Regrets. It was Cha's idea and her title, so Gaia takes not blame for redundancy.

Please review. Don't worry, it'll get to both of us. And make not one, but two people very happy.

Chapter 1: Melissa

_I will remember you _

_Will you remember me _

_Don't let your life pass you by_

_Weep not for the memories_

"I Will Remember You" – Sarah McLachlan

"Down here." Trip followed his scanner deep into the cave, wondering – not for the first time – what the hell he was doing. Bad things happened to him in caves: like an overdose of violent paranoia or falling over a cliff face, or winding up imprisoned. _You'd think I'd learn by now_. But here he was – having survived pregnancy, hypothermia, heatstroke, near-drowning, concussion, brain-damage, and marauding Xindi – only to find himself back in a cave, chasing down an 'anomalous' (to use T'Pol's description) energy signature. _And to think I couldn't _wait_ to get back to the exploring gig again_.

The scanner indicated a small opening to the right – he had to bend double to get through it. Then…

_Holy shit. This looks just like home_. He spun around, looking for the cave. Gone. Instead… He could hear the sound of cars up ahead, and made his way towards the call of civilisation. _If there's cars, that's tech, and if there's tech, that's intelligent life_. He pushed his way through a section of bushes, and emerged onto a strip of asphalt.

_Holy_ _shit_. He rubbed his eyes to make sure he hadn't misread the sign by the side of the road. _Interstate…_ Not to mention the state _itself_. _Florida_? And if he had it pegged right… no more than five clicks outside Panama City. _What the hell?_

"I am never going in to another goddamn cave for as long as I live," he vowed, looking up and down the stretch of highway. A small sub-division lurked up the way… he could get directions, possibly, or in the very least, information.

_At least Starfleet has kept me in shape_. He struck out for the houses, trying to piece things together. _This can't be Florida – I was thousands of light-years away. There is _no_ way this is Florida. Maybe I hit my head going through that opening… yeah, that's it… I'm in a coma and hallucinating_. Still, it _felt_ real: the slight give of overheated asphalt beneath his feet, the smell of citrus and tar, and the gusts every time a car raced past. The humid heat brought out sweat… he could feel his uniform getting soaked already. _My dreams are detailed, but usually not _this_ detailed._

As he drew closer, he could see that the houses weren't all in the best repair – and none of the yards were well maintained. _Not a high-income neighbourhood_. Still, he could hear kids yelling in back-yards… in one front yard a dirty, blond boy stared at him for a moment, then ran away screaming.

_I look _that_ bad?_ Aside from being a little damp, he couldn't imagine what the problem could be. _Maybe he's just been taught to be careful of strangers._ On the other hand… if the _kid_ was home, there was a good chance a parent would be home too… _and a parent might talk to me_.

He made his way up the short driveway, noting that this house seemed in a little better condition than some of the others – obviously one of the inhabitants knew a little about repairs. Three steps led up to the front door. Dodging toys, he mounted them and knocked.

There was a pause and some yelling from inside before the door opened, revealing a tall blonde with a toddler on her hip – clearly not far away from trading it for an infant. Her hair hung around her tired face in bedraggled strands – the child had a lock of it in her mouth. She looked at him for a moment – saying nothing – then her oddly familiar face froze.

"Excuse…" Trip began.

"Trip!" The woman hollered, turning back into the house. "Get your ass out here."

_What the hell?_ What were the chances that someone here would have the same odd nickname?

She was answered by a muted swearing, then: "One goddamn minute. You were the one who said this goddamn thing had to be fixed now. What's the problem?"

"The problem is you can't get off your lazy ass and fix anything before it becomes a goddamn crisis," she muttered. Turning back to Trip, "Look… if it's money, forget it. We haven't got any to spare as it is."

"Um…" Trip backed up, colliding with the narrow metal railing that bracketed the stoop. _All I wanted was to know for sure where I was_.

"Mary! Get off the back of the couch, and leave your brother alone. How many goddamn times…" The man's voice grew louder. Either he'd added more volume – unlikely, if not impossible – or he drew closer.

"Will you goddamn well stop swearing at the kids?" She screamed back into the house then turned to Trip. "Stupid son-of-a-bitch is gonna have 'em talking like he does, then there's going to be no end of trouble with the school."

_I'm going to avoid pointing out the hypocrisy inherent in that statement._ Another thought followed hot on the first one's heels. _I've been hanging out with Malcolm for too long_. Two years ago he'd never have phrased something like that, especially not in his own head.

The door yanked open wider, and Trip's eyes widened farther than he thought possible.

"Who the hell are you?" The man staring back at him was clearly two steps past the point of pissed off – a state Trip had no difficulty recognising. Mostly because…

"Commander Charles Tucker the Third, Starfleet…" he found himself reciting his serial number without even thinking. Having a _Klingon_ breathe in his face wasn't this disconcerting. _Add ten years… and that's _me.

"Look, pal, this ain't funny. Now get outta here before I call the cops." His doppelganger stepped forward, one hand clenched tightly into a fist.

_I can take him. Thanks to Hayes and Malcolm… I can take this guy. He's got weight… but I've got condition._ _This_ Trip wore the extra weight poorly – a football player gone to hell. _The same diet, one quarter the exercise_. Still, he didn't want a fight if he could avoid it. He leaned a little farther back over the railing, which decided to give way.

"Ow." He landed on his ass on the lawn, barely missing a tricycle. Instinctively, he rolled, lessening the amount of momentum turned into impact. Still, it hurt, especially since the railing landed slightly before him.

"Jesus, Trip. I told you that thing was giving out over a month ago." The blonde stepped forward, and stared down. "Don't think about suing us… there's nothing to take. I don't care _how_ well placed your friends are…"

Trip manoeuvred himself into a sitting position and stared at her. A twinge of sympathy ran through him, even though it was he who was in pain. "Don't worry. They'll probably testify I fell over my own feet anyway." Quickly he ran a mental diagnostic. "Nothing broken… just a bit bruised. I'm fine." He could tell she didn't look convinced. "Trust me. I once tripped over a twenty-yard line. That hurt worse than this." Admittedly the worst blow had been to his pride – just like now.

The man stared at him, as though seeing him for the first time. Trip followed the gaze down to a tiny scar on his hand.

"How did you get that?" The man spoke so quietly that Trip almost missed it.

"I cut it when I was a kid… I broke my Mom's vase and didn't want her to know, so I didn't tell her about the cut. It got infected… and they only found out when I came down with a fever. And it was so bad…"

"…the doctors had to cut away a portion of the flesh." Now the man stared down at his own hand, finishing the recitation.

"Yeah." Trip's jaw hung loose as his mind put it together. _Holy shit_…

"Come on into the garage. It's cooler in there." The other Trip descended the stairs and held out a hand. " 'Liss. Get us a couple of beers, will you?"

Beer sounded good, except… _I _am_ technically still on duty_. "No thanks. To the beer, that is." He noticed a look of surprise on the other Trip's – Tucker's – face. "Regs."

"Right. Get me a beer, and get him a lemonade or somethin'." Tucker didn't even look at…

'_Liss_. This time it was Trip's turn to stare. No _wonder_ the woman looked so familiar. "Melissa? Melissa _Lyles_?"

She gave him a look that told him that she still didn't trust him. "Melissa _Tucker_. We _are_ married."

_We _are? He knew she meant _Tucker_, but still… "Sorry. It's just… forget it." Still… _I've always regretted never asking you to dance_. He felt a twinge of it now – though he could barely see her former beauty behind the tired mask.

He turned back to Tucker to find that the other man disappearing around the corner of the garage, not seeming to care that his wife hadn't even responded to his request.

"We're out of lemonade," Melissa announced.

"Whatever you've got will be fine," Trip found his gaze attracted to the toddler again. She looked so much like Elizabeth when she had been that age. A familiar pain struck him hard in the stomach. _Just when I think I'm getting over it…_

Melissa noticed his stare and turned away quickly. "He's in the garage. And tell him not to be too long, because we still need that damn dishwasher fixed."

_Right_. Grateful to escape, he headed to the small, unattached structure. Inside he found Tucker collapsed in an old, worn-out recliner. A smaller, less damaged chair sat nearby. "Sit down."

"Thanks." Trip lowered himself gingerly into the chair. It was musty and covered in grease and crumbs, but it held his weight. He would have wondered about Tucker's equanimity about Trip's identity, _but he probably read the same sci-fi books I did_. "So… Melissa Lyles."

"Yeah." Tucker's face twisted bitterly. "And to think I thought I'd won a prize. So… Starfleet huh? What happened? That hunk of metal actually get off the ground?"

It took Trip a second to realise what Tucker was talking about. "All the way to Warp Five. That's maxed out of course, and she doesn't like it too much…"

Tucker's jaw dropped this time. "You're actually out there. Son-of-a-bitch. So what do you do?"

"Ch…Engineer." He'd been about to reveal the whole truth before his brain kicked in. _Telling this guy that you're _chief_ engineer of the flagship of the fleet might _not_ be the best thing for his psyche._ Trip looked around at the crowded garage, and into his own tired face. "What year is it?"

"2154," Tucker answered, puzzled. "Why?"

"Just curious." _He may _look_ ten years older… but he's the same age as _me. "How many kids have you got?"

A tired look settled in on Tucker's face. "Six. Charlie… he's seventeen, then Tysey, and Tommy – the twins – they're ten… then Mary, and Erin, and Lizzie…and another one on the way. How 'bout you?"

"Um…" How to explain Lorian? Did he exist… was he something in potentia, or had things gone past that point now, to where he never would be? "Possibly. I don't know. It's complicated."

Tucker raised an eyebrow.

"Temporal… I mean in one timeline…" Trip gave up. "Let's just say… no. Not right now."

"Ya want one?" Tucker kicked a foam football across the garage floor. "Go ahead, take your pick."

Trip smiled. "I think my captain would kill me. He's got enough trouble with _one_ Tucker on board the ship."

Melissa came in and handed her husband a beer before passing a glass of something greyish-green to Trip. She gave each of them a glare, then stalked out.

Trip sipped the drink gingerly. He was hot and he was thirsty, but he wasn't sure that Melissa wasn't trying to poison him. "Interesting." It tasted like about four flavours of Kool-Aid and was a little light on the sugar.

"Christ. I'm sure she could'a found you something better than that." Tucker opened up his mouth to yell, but Trip held up a hand.

"It's fine. Really." He took a bigger swallow. "This takes me back." Actually, the only place it took him back to was a year spent living in a college dorm and eating nothing but macaroni and cheese and hotdogs. _Mom would have _died_ before serving us something like this_. He looked around the place again. "So, how did you two get together?"

Tucker grimaced. "Bayshore Elementary. That damned dance. You know… hell, you do know."

"Yeah." All that time preparing, just to stand in a corner. _I learned how to dance, just so I could keep my feet still_. So was this…

"Childhood sweethearts…" The irony in Tucker's voice was heavy enough to weigh down a shuttlepod. "Hell. What a crock of shit _that_ story is."

"Wow." Trip could think of nothing else to say. Then the math caught up with him. "You said Charlie's seventeen?"

Tucker smirked. "Yup. I wasn't makin' up my mind fast enough for 'Liss, so she made it up for me. Seventeen years old… and insteada headin' off to college, I'm packin' groceries to put diapers on a kid. Then her daddy got sick… then Mom and Dad got divorced and there was all the hassle over that…"

"Got _what_?" Trip nearly bolted out of his chair. "Mom and Dad. As in…"

Tucker nodded. "Yup. Not that we were speaking at the time… when Charlie showed up, the general attitude was 'tough shit.' You know Mom and Responsibility."

Trip nodded. It was why he always took precautions of his own. _Well… except once…_ but how was he supposed to know that _he'd_ end up carrying the child?

"But Lizzie ended up staying with us for a while… She's moved on up to Baltimore now… workin' for one of the news agencies…" For the first time, Tucker seemed almost happy, then it disappeared. "We don't hear from her much, anymore. I think she's kinda embarrassed."

"Oh." Trip dropped his gaze, feeling that fist slam into his gut again. _Oh, God, baby sister, why'd it have to be you? Why couldn't I have _done_ something?_ Something like grab hold of Daniels and threaten to beat the guy's head in if he didn't let Trip go back and save her. He took a few deep breaths like T'Pol had taught him, focussing on dampening the pain.

"Are you okay?" Tucker leaned forward, concern in his eyes. "You looked like you were gonna pass out there, for a second."

"I'm fine." No he wasn't, and he doubted he ever truly would be. "The Xindi never attacked here, did they?"

"The who?" Tucker shook his head.

No, of course they didn't. If the NX program never flew, then there would be no 'Federation'… and no need for the Xindi to attack. _I wonder if there's an Expanse here. And how long 'till it reaches Earth?_ He took another couple of deep breaths. "'Cause they did for me. Lizzie died in the attacks."

"Shit." Tucker closed his eyes for a moment. "And here I thought you had it good."

Trip smiled weakly. "Not so good. I'm learning to deal, but it isn't easy." _If time heals all wounds, how come I still hurt so goddamn much?_

Tucker nodded. "I bet not." Silence stretched between them for a moment. "So how'd the damned thing get goin'? 'Round here they're still promisin' 'sometime, next year,' for makin' Warp Two. An' you said you're at what? Five?"

"Yeah. We…" Trip debated how much to tell him. "I helped a couple of pilots steal the last of the prototypes before the brass could scrap it. We worked out the problem and broke Two just in time. The guards had their hands on my arms when Archer broke through with the announcement."

"Ya know, I was gonna' do Starfleet. But with Charlie and all… hell. And look at you. How old are you? _Commander?_"

Trip didn't answer, but Tucker guessed it anyway. "Friggin' Commander, huh? I bet you're the son-of-a-bitch in charge over there, too, not just some 'engineer.'" He held up his fingers to form quote marks around the last word.

"No. Not even second in command." In charge of _Engineering_, maybe… but Archer still had command of the ship.

Tucker gave him a look that said he didn't believe it.

"I swear." Trip held up two fingers in the traditional boy-scout salute. "On my honour as an officer and a gentleman, I am not the man in charge. I may be _friends_ with the man in charge…"

Now Tucker burst out laughing. "Yeah, I could'a guessed that. Hell, just listen to you. You sound like a college professor or somethin'."

_I do?_ Funny, everybody gave him a hard time about how non-intellectual he sounded. He remembered Malcolm mocking him when they were still in space-dock. As for T'Pol and Hoshi… _hell, they make me sound like I can't even speak _English. And when you considered that English was a second (or maybe fifth) language for T'Pol… "I'm sure I can find a few people who would disagree with you." Yet now that he listened… he did have a more formal tone than Tucker. Like with the last sentence… Tucker probably would have said 'fight' or 'argue' as opposed to 'disagree.' _I _have_ been hanging around with Malcolm too much_. Except it wasn't just Malcolm, it was _all_ of them. Malcolm, Hoshi, T'Pol… they all spoke so precisely and perfectly that he'd started to pick up on it. Archer, too. _I guess I didn't want to sound like an idiot… so I learned the language_. He hadn't lost the accent… just changed his syntax a little.

"Shit." Tucker drained the last of his beer.

"Noc'tal," Trip agreed.

"What the hell was that? You chokin' on something?"

Trip laughed. "No, it's Arkonian. One of the few words I picked up. It means 'bad.' At least I _think_ that's what it means. It's a basic meaning, anyway."

"Shit. And now you're speakin' alien languages." Tucker stared down at his beer can morosely.

"Hey. I almost _died_ picking up that word. Between the shuttlepod crash, the heat, and the fact that Zho'Kaan was trying to kill me… it ain't all fun and games out there, you know." Inwardly, Trip smiled, thinking about it. They'd made more diplomatic progress with the Arkonians in twenty-four hours than the Vulcans had managed in decades. _And all because I beat and threatened to shoot the son-of-a-bitch_. Well, more likely because he _hadn't_ shot the son-of-a-bitch, and had risked his own life until Zho'Kaan made it out okay.

"That dangerous?"

Trip nodded soberly. "Hell, I've nearly died more times than I can count." He tapped his head. "These aren't all mine in here. I mean _genetically_ they're mine…" Every now and then though… _Ghost flickers_. He didn't tell anybody about them – especially not Phlox. Just… once in a while it felt like he was seeing things through someone else's eyes, or remembering fragments of a conversation he'd never had. _They say Sim had all _my_ memories… so why shouldn't I have _his? For example… who's initial attraction to T'Pol _was_ it? According to Hess it was his… but only because she saw those early fights between him and the Sub-Commander as an 'alpha-male' form of flirting. Still, he couldn't help but wonder if it _was_ his feelings he'd acted on, or somebody else's. _Not that I'm complaining_… hell, they were more than his own feelings now…

"Single then?" Tucker looked almost jealous at the thought. Then again, given what Trip had seen of Tucker's marriage, it was understandable.

"Yeah. But there's someone… maybe… you know… same ol', same ol'. I'm not always sure if I'm thinking above or below the waist when it comes to her… she drives me around the bend sometimes…and I have _no_ idea how she feels about me… if she _feels_ about me. And even if she does…" Trip sighed. Even if T'Pol truly _did_ have feelings of her own in his direction… _She's a Vulcan. Who's to say she won't decide to lock them away and it'll never be? Do I have a right to demand that she doesn't?_

"Uh, oh." Tucker shook his beer can and then chucked it at the garbage. "I know that look. That's the one right before the chains go on and you start thinkin' it's the best thing in the universe. 'Till you wake up with the mortgage overdue and a kid screamin' in your ear 'cause it needs its diaper changed an' another one who's tellin' you he's droppin' outta school 'cause it's 'stupid' and doesn't get you anywhere… Trust me, buddy: walk away. _Especially_ if she's good lookin'. 'Cause first she'll be _want, want, want_… an' then the looks are gonna go an' then…"

"I'll probably be long dead by then." Trip was slowly coming to the conclusion that Tucker wasn't on his first beer of the day. "She's a Vulcan. They live to about three hundred." And T'Pol was barely sixty… though… _Didn't she say that was 'intimate' knowledge? Okay, so you had her on the defensive, but still…_ and she was _certainly_ no Melissa Lyles – now that he remembered, Melissa _had_ always been a little full of herself.

"You're dating a _Vulcan?_ What the hell kinda move is _that_? I didn't know they _had_ feelings." Tucker did a full double-take, pulling back in his chair.

Trip felt anger rising and forced himself to quell it. "Actually, they do. They're just better at _controlling_ their emotions than we are." He stared at his double, not quite believing what he was hearing. _Was I ever this prejudiced?_

Tucker spread his hands in a gesture of conciliation. "Hey. Sorry. Aside from Mr. Velik back at school… I've never talked to one."

The door banged open and Trip jumped. A tall boy stared at him, head shaved bald and tattoos on his forearms. Black leather comprised his entire outfit from vest down to his cheap Engineering boots, with the sole exception of a black tee-shirt and – Trip assumed – his underwear and socks. Reflexively, Trip glanced at his own boots… custom made to fit and better able to stand the rigors of the engineer's trade than the imitations on the kid's feet.

"You got manners? I got company here. I thought I said if you weren't going to be going to school…" Tucker picked a piece of stuffing out of his chair and threw it at the kid.

"Who the fuck're you?" The boy stared at Trip with all the hostility a perpetually angry teen could muster.

Trip stared back, holding the gaze until the teen's eyes began to water. _You ain't got_ nothin'_ I can't handle, boy. Your daddy wants you learnin' manners, I gotta few people who could teach 'em to ya. _Starting with Malcolm and Hess, and moving right on up through Archer, Jeffries and Forrest. _And I don't even want to _think_ of what Hoshi would do to you_. If one thing on that ship truly intimidated him… it was Hoshi Sato extremely pissed off. And having seen _her_ in the training sessions…

"You didn't fuckin' answer my question, man." The boy tried to rally.

Slowly Trip stood up. They were about equal in height and there was no question who was in better condition here. "Charlie, I presume?" Charlie outweighed Trip by about ten pounds of muscle… and seventeen years of wear and tear.

"Yeah, so? Who the fuck're you?"

"Charlie! Shut the hell up. This is…"

Trip held up a hand to silence Tucker. "It's okay." _I learned a little trick from Jeffries, and it's a good one._ He put a friendly arm around Charlie's shoulder and led the boy away from his father.

"Look, you little shit." He leaned close and spoke softly in Charlie's ear. "I am older than you, and wiser than you and I _will_ have some respect from you, do you understand?" He didn't wait for an answer before continuing. "Because if you _don't_ provide me with that respect I am going to knot your knees behind your neck. And that is _before_ I throw you out on your ass so hard that you bounce. Are we clear, sunshine?" Charlie moved to pull away, and Trip dug a thumb into one of the pressure points on the kid's arm – one of the ones T'Pol taught him about. Charlie stiffened and stood absolutely still.

"That's a good boy, sunshine. I do believe we're beginning to communicate. Now… your dad was saying something about you quitting school?" While Tucker hadn't named names, it was obvious who the only one old enough was.

Charlie nodded. "It's stupid and it sucks."

"Ah." Trip twisted his head around so he could look up into Charlie's face. "So, you're going to be the big bad wolf instead, huh?" He prodded one of Charlie's boots with his own. "Take 'em off, kid."

"What the fuck?" Charlie twisted, but couldn't break free.

"I said take 'em off. Pieces of shit that they are, those are still _engineer's_ boots, and if you aren't going to school, you sure as hell _ain't_ gonna be an engineer. And we real ones? We get real touchy about things like that." Hess wouldn't even _warn_ a punk like this before kicking his ass up around his ears. As far as she was concerned, the boots were sacred… he never saw her without them – no matter what else she was wearing. "Furthermore… I really don't like the level of respect you're showing your father." What was it Lorian had said about him being 'tough?' "I don't care _how_ he hasn't lived up to your expectations of perfection… you owe him a hell of a lot more than you're giving him. You have no fucking _idea_ what he sacrificed for you…"

"Yeah, I know, his fucking dream of Starfleet…" Charlie sneered, speaking loud enough for Tucker to hear.

"Yeah. And you know what, sunshine? With this attitude of yours, you don't deserve it. If my kid ever pulled this shit…" Okay, so Trip's kid _shot_ him… but the circumstances had been a little different.

"Any time, pal." Charlie threw out the challenge, overconfident in his toughness.

Trip dug his thumb in a little harder. "I don't think you get it, sunshine. No matter how strong, or smart you are… no matter how much of a badass you _think_ you are… there is always going to be someone stronger and smarter and ten-times more the badass than you'll ever be. Today that person is me… tomorrow… you don't know. Now there are two ways this can go. The easy way is you apologise to your father, _and_ to me… and say it like you mean it, and you keep your ass in school and you graduate, and you gain yourself a chance outta here."

"And the hard way?"

Trip grinned, a grin that explained who the big bad wolf around here really was. "You don't want to know about the hard way, kid."

"You can't do this. I've got friends." Charlie was clearly running out of bravado. Trip could see it in the way the kid's eyes darted back and forth, and how he constantly licked his lips.

"Good. So do I. And twenty says my friends are bigger than your friends. And I'll bet I've got more of them too, because I'm such a sweet, friendly guy. The interesting thing is, I _know_ mine'll back me up in the crunch. You so sure about yours?" The look in Charlie's eyes said it all – he wasn't.

"Well then," Trip let Charlie go and patted him on the head. "Why don't we go with the easy way then."

"I'm sorry," Charlie mumbled.

"No, I think your _dad_ is over there." Trip spun Charlie around and pointed him in the direction of his father.

Amazingly, the kid cooperated. "I'm sorry, Dad. I shouldn't have said that."

Tucker looked like he was about to say something sarcastic, and Trip shook his head, then mouthed 'Say thank-you,' over Charlie's head.

Tucker glowered for a moment, then did. Charlie looked over at Trip, who nodded, then Charlie ran for the door.

"Nice kid." Trip sat down again, and looked at Tucker.

"What the hell did you _do_ to him? I don't think that kid's said sorry for anythin' in his life. Let alone to _me_." Tucker looked at Trip as though Trip had just turned water into bourbon and was serving free drinks.

"Just a little trick a c/o once taught me. Works wonders on smart-mouthed, know-it-all brats."

Tucker laughed. "Used it on you, huh?"

Trip dropped his head and nodded. "Uh-huh. Only took once for the lesson to stick, too. Of course he was a lot bigger and more intimidating than me… but I've learned a few other things to make up for it." Like neuropressure points, and an attitude of friendly menace. _Like several years of command_. Amazing how a simple _expectation_ of obedience often created it. A line from officer's school echoed in his head. _You get what you ask for_. Tucker probably _expected_ trouble from Charlie by now… no wonder the kid was so happy to oblige. _You get frustrated and you snap at him. And, being a Tucker, he does the same thing back… and you call it disrespect. Until he _doesn't_ respect you, because you've got a serious double standard._ Tucker's reluctance to accept his son's apology said it all. _You don't _want_ to forgive him… he's hurt you too much. But you can't heal if you can't forgive… that's something _else_ I learned the hard way_.

"You know, you weren't perfect at seventeen, either." Before Trip could stop himself, the words came out. "Don't you think he _knows_ that? You said Mom and Dad don't speak to you… that _Elizabeth_ doesn't speak to you… do you _want_ to do the same thing to him?"

"Look he's…"

"No." Trip cut off Tucker's protest. "He _is_ responsible for himself, but you are responsible for _you_. Look at you. Your kid says sorry to you for the first time in his life, and you're too goddamn pissed off and bitter to accept it. I'm telling you, right now, I've got more sympathy for _him_. Why _should_ he try, if he's going to get the same shit from you, either way?"

"Christ, you sound like Mom…"

"Yeah? Well maybe she had a point. You want to know the _biggest_ thing I've learned in Starfleet? If you want to _get_ respect, you've got to _give_ it first. I've got people who would – who _have_ – followed me into Hell, and it's 'cause I give them enough credit in the first place. They know: push comes to shove, I'm right there with them, right there _for_ them."

"Look, I've got five other kids. If I'm supposed to abandon them…"

"I've got _thirty_ people under my command… and that's _directly_ under my command in Engineering. And don't tell me you've also got a job, because I've got one too. And I _work_ the double and triple shifts… I don't make anyone else do it for me. Just because I'm the son-of-a-bitch in charge doesn't mean I get to take a holiday." He cut himself off, irritated at having lost his temper. It was just… _I _hate_ feeling sorry for myself. And there I am – or what I might have been – doing nothing but_. "You know you _had_ other options."

"Such as?" Temper boiled up in Tucker too – his face flushed red.

"Correspondence. It would have meant extra work… but do you think I made it all the way to Commander at the bright young age of thirty by bitching and complaining about how unlucky I was? I worked my _ass_ off on fifty, sixty hour weeks, I put in extra study time, took extra courses… I finished a four year degree in two… not because I'm some sort of fucking genius… but because I knuckled down and busted my ass to get it done. But the one thing I did _not_ do was give up." _Because I…_ suddenly it dawned on him. _I didn't ask Melissa to dance. I've _always_ regretted that, and said I'd never let my fear and doubt stop me again. Ever since that moment, I've always taken the risk._ Sometimes he succeeded, sometimes he failed… _but look what it's got me_. Friends who cared about him like family, well enough to _kill_ for him… the most amazing job in the universe, and maybe even a relationship with a shot at not only lasting, but being great. Maybe not perfect, but then again, few things ever were.

He stood up again. "Well, it was good to meet you… believe me, it's been an education." He shook Tucker's hand. "But I've got a life to get back to. And tell your kid… Warp Five's just around the corner, and if he gets his ass in gear, he might be able to catch it." He turned to go, just as Melissa entered the garage again.

"It was good to meet you again, Melissa." Trip leaned in and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. "I used to regret… I don't think I do, anymore." He turned away from her startled, angry glare and began to retrace his steps back out to the highway. Somewhere out there was home, with eighty-four friends and a dog. _I always wanted a big family_. He glanced back once, at the sorry world he could have inhabited. _Maybe you really_ do_ get what you ask for._


	2. Stoic

Chapter 2: Stoic

_Don't make me listen to that stupid broken record again_

_The needle skippin' and repeatin', never reaching the end_

_You're bitchin' and complainin' like you've got it so tough_

_We're sick of all your cryin' will you ever shut up?_

_So keep bleeding your fake blood_

_'Till no one even sees it_

_If that's the best you can make up_

_At least act like you mean it…_

_Give up the grudge_

_You better shut your mouth_

_Why you gotta judge_

_Everybody but yourself_

_Take a look around you_

_There ain't nobody home_

_I may be a loser but at least I'm not alone._

"Give Up the Grudge" – Gob.

_This is ridiculous_. Had it been his choice… _No way I would have allowed all the senior officers planetside at one time_. But it hadn't been his choice, it had been Captain Archer's choice – and the captain was beginning to ignore common sense again. _When did he ever stop?_ Malcolm had to be honest with himself: the captain – as good as he was at everything else – had never been a security minded commanding officer. Even at the height of the Xindi troubles, the man had taken risks Malcolm would never even have considered. _But _this_ is ridiculous_.

And then there was Commander Tucker. Supposedly intelligent by all accounts, yet here he'd gone charging into a cave _despite_ all the things that had previously happened to him while underground. _You'd think he'd learn by now_. Yet if there was one thing _Malcolm_ had learned these past three plus years, it was that Commander Tucker had even less common sense than the captain. _Tell him it shouldn't be done and he'll fall all over himself trying to do it._ Crazy bugger probably _had_ fallen and broken his communicator, which would explain why the rest of the party had lost contact with him.

_And now, I have to put _myself_ in danger just to try to get _you_ back_. Not that it was entirely the commander's fault, _he_ wasn't the one who'd decided that this 'anomalous' energy signature needed checking out. No, _that_ had been Sub-commander T'Pol's insistence – and up until now Malcolm though _she_ of all people _did_ have some basic common sense.

At least _one_ piece of luck was good, however: thick mud had blanketed the entrance to the cave, meaning that Commander Tucker's oversized footprints were clearly visible on the otherwise dry floor. The tracks led around a corner and into a small opening.

"Commander?" Malcolm called through the opening, but received no response. _Stop playing silly buggers, Trip, and answer me._ "Commander?" He stepped forward into darkness.

His boots echoed on metal. _Metal_? The air smelled stale and overused… and sudden pain told him that there wasn't a very high ceiling in here and it had very heavy pipes running underneath it. "This isn't funny, Commander." It had to be some sort of practical joke… they'd been here long enough for Trip to set something up.

"I wasn't laughing." Another voice emerged from the shadows – his eyes were beginning to adjust. He didn't recognise the voice – harsh and rasping – but _did_ recognise the language and accent. "And you are damned fortunate that we are not on silent running status… or I would have you up on immediate charges."

"On whose authority?" Unless someone transferred in overnight… Malcolm knew he was the highest-ranking Briton on the ship. _And I wasn't even _on_ the ship_.

"_Commander_ Malcolm Reed. And you would be…" The tone implied that he would be something more applicable to being scraped off a deck than standing on it.

_One small step below that._ _Malcolm _Reed_? What the hell is _that _about_? "Lieutenant Malcolm Reed. _Enterprise_." He considered stepping forward to get a better look… then decided that his head didn't need any more abuse.

The point proved moot anyway as a hand reached forward and grabbed his uniform, pulling him forward. A blink later and he found himself nose to nose with…

"Bloody hell." The hand released him and his mirror image blinked. "What the hell is going on here?" The words came out with the smoke of a half-consumed cigarette.

"Beats me." _Now where did I pick up _that_ expression, Charles Tucker?_ "I was just asking myself the same question." And having a heart attack while he was at it. Even Trip wasn't _this_ good… and this was giving full credit to the man who made Starfleet Headquarters disappear. "I guess a good place to start would be 'where the hell am I?'"

"HMS/M _Stoic_." Cold eyes looked Malcolm up and down, clearly not satisfied with what they saw.

"I'm on a _submarine_?" Time now for another technique learned from the redoubtable Commander Tucker: denial. "I am not on board a submarine… I am hallucinating. I hit my head on a piece of rock… I'm hallucinating… I need to go see Phlox."

"Are you quite done?" His other self spoke with a hint of dry amusement at Malcolm's inanity – shades of Stuart Reed himself.

"I've had training from an expert. I could go on like this for hours." Yet _another_ Tucker influence… the ability to make fun of oneself. _And to think I used to take myself so seriously_. Funny how unstiffening his spine could give him some backbone… three years ago he'd never _think_ of talking back to a superior officer… even if that superior officer was a nicotine soaked Malcolm Reed. This close, Malcolm felt like _he_ was smoking… the scent was so strong. _You're in a contained space, with limited air… and you're filling it with toxins. Aren't I a brilliant man._

"Indeed, Lieutenant. Well, I doubt my patience would last that long… it's not noted for its durability to begin with." A pistol dangled in Reed's other hand… a solid projectile antique.

_No, it wasn't, was it?_ "Fine." Malcolm threw up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "What would you like from me, sir?" An ironic twist infused itself onto the last word… Malcolm was certain he had nothing to do with it.

"A few less dramatics would be a satisfactory start. What service are you with? I don't recognise the uniform… and you certainly didn't acquire that attitude in any _respectable_ military organisation." Reed's look said it all: the lift to the chin, the cold appraisal of the eyes.

_Snot_. "I've been hanging around with Americans." Three years ago he'd never have said 'hanging around' either. "Starfleet, actually. Father wasn't too impressed." Considering that they hadn't had a civil conversation since he told the Admiral he was enlisting in another organisation…

"I would imagine not. Lieutenant, then?" And there it was again… that air of superiority. As though 'Commander' made up for the fact that Reed looked half-dead from weariness, stress, and only God knew what else.

"Chief Armoury Officer. And you?" He caught the flicker of irritation in his other's eyes, and knew he scored a hit. _So despite the title… you're not much of anything, are you?_

"Like I said. _Commander_ Malcolm Reed. Starfleet? Didn't they have that disaster with their Warp Five program? Lost the ship?" Triumph infused the words, as though somehow Starfleet's failure was the Royal Navy's success.

"Not that I noticed." Malcolm smirked. "Then again, this _could_ be Hell. Have you noticed any flames?" Come to think of it, and existentialist hell was supposedly being trapped forever with people you hated. This would certainly qualify.

"I seem to recall… they ran into some difficulty… didn't have appropriate weaponry. They'd barely even left Earth, too."

"Not true. We _installed_ the phase cannons." While they should have been done before hand, he had to admit that he and Trip did one hell of a job.

The commander raised a sceptical eyebrow. "According to the reports, there was no time to return to Jupiter Station."

"Which is why we did it on the spot." _Try that, commander of nothing_. "Two days, versus two weeks." _And kiss my pretty little ass_. _That_ one he'd picked up from Hess. "I wish you were here, L.T." he spoke the last words softly, half afraid the universe would grant his request. _I'm not sure which would be worse: being stuck here with me, or being stuck here with me and Lieutenant Hess_. Wouldn't that be a match made in hell. Mr. Stick-Up-The-Ass and Commander Tucker's Psychotic-Little-Tinkerbell. _She'd eat you alive_.

"Ell-tee? You _have_ been spending time with Americans. Anyway, I thought _you_ were the Lieutenant." Apparently Reed's hearing skills were as good as his own. "Though it explains your attitude problem." Again that little sneer, as though somehow cold detachment signalled superiority.

"There's more than one on the ship, you bloody git. I was speaking of the Engineering second." _And I don't have an attitude problem… you have a perception problem_. "I haven't even _begun_ to give you attitude yet."

"And he…"

"She." Malcolm corrected. "Just came to mind, that's all." _Because you _need_ a good kicking in the teeth… and I haven't got the patience to do it_.

Another emotion crossed Reed's face. "_She_." The word dripped acid.

"Yes, she. Female pronoun, singular. Am I testing your familiarity with the English language?" If Reed could play the superiority game…

Reed's dark look deepened. Clearly he didn't like being talked back to, or the taste of his own medicine. "And I suppose you and she?"

"Do I look insane? Don't answer that," Malcolm amended hastily, even though Reed could have no idea just what 'Hess' entailed. "No. She's just a friend. There is nobody at the current moment." He didn't add that a glimpse into his future indicated nobody at _any_ current moment… no sense boring a hole in a submarine. "You?"

"Married. Two children." Reed didn't elaborate further.

"Congratulations." Actually, Reed didn't sound to happy about it. Considering his eagerness for superiority in every other area, it seemed a little odd.

"We have an understanding."

_Uh-oh_. No good marriage operated on the principle of 'We have an understanding.' The phrase usually indicated that one or the other of the participants was less than committed to their companion. "I'm sorry." Maybe there _were_ advantages to staying single.

"She has… needs… and I am unable to fulfill them from here. However…"

However, there would be no divorce, because Reeds did not get divorces. _Loyal until the end_._ What a load of crap._

"What about the rest of the family? Mother, Father…" Surely the chasm that existed between Malcolm and Stuart would not have formed here… here where son followed father's footsteps to the sea.

"I assume they are well. Last I heard, Mother and Father were returning to Malaysia." So detached, as though family meant absolutely nothing.

"Don't call me, Shirley." Malcolm muttered. "You mean to tell me that you went through this _hell_ of being on board a frigging _submarine_ and Father _still_ doesn't speak to you?" That had been his _only_ regret about entering Starfleet… the deepening of the void between them. To find out that it would have been that way, regardless…

"There are a great many issues between Father and I." Reed stared at him even more coldly than before, lighting a fresh cigarette from the ashes of the first.

"Or to put it in plain English, he's still a bastard and you're merely pathetic." _Chain-smoking?_ If that wasn't evidence of pathetic then nothing else would be.

Reed's eyes narrowed. "Might I remind you…"

"Actually, I'm not." Malcolm knew exactly where that line headed. "You are neither above me in the chain of command, nor would I term you to be a 'superior' officer in any other sense. Correct me if I'm wrong… but I would guess that the only reason you still _have_ a posting is that it's more politically expedient than cashiering you. I have _crewmen_ who would make better officers than you." Another direct hit… this time he saw the flinch.

"Are you forgetting who I am?" No missing that irony. Then again, he'd always been _intelligent_.

_I was just never very smart_. "Not me." Another conversation flashed back to him… when Trip and Malcolm discussed seeing the future. Then, he thought it would be wonderful to miss all of those 'awkward first dates,' but now – he wasn't so sure. _Every experience changes you_. "There was a time when I thought a 'superior officer' _should_ be like Father… like you. That was before my captain risked his life for several hours cutting me away from the hull." And Trip spent several hours annoying his way into friendship.

"That was a mistake. No officer… especially a _junior_ officer," the emphasis indicated that _Malcolm_ especially qualified, "is that indispensable." Reed's lip curled into a sneer, but his eyes said something different. Jealously lurked there, a deep jealousy over Malcolm's admittance.

"Perhaps… but since I _was_ that junior officer… I'm rather grateful he's a thick-skulled bastard. There's a _reason_ his crew will follow him anywhere… and it's not because he orders them to go, it's because he leads the way forward. We stick with him, because we know he won't leave us behind." _He'll send us _back,_ but he won't leave us behind_. He'd been furious when Archer ordered him back to Enterprise and stayed behind to disable the Xindi weapon himself… but had known that while it might kill him to abandon Archer… he _couldn't_ risk Hoshi as well. Angrily he reached over and plucked the cigarette from Reed's lips. He dropped it to the deck and ground it out beneath his heel. "If you don't mind… I have to breathe the air in here, too."

"Actually, I do mind." The blow caught Malcolm unawares, a hard open handed slap to the jaw.

"My, my. Striking a junior officer. We are the epitome of control, aren't we?" Malcolm resisted the urge to rub his face. _I'm not letting you know that hurt_.

"Shut up!" Oh, Reed was definitely in control all right. "You know nothing…"

"Cry me a goddamn river, Commander." He'd heard Forrest use that one once. "It's hardly my fault you're a broken-down lousy excuse for a human being. You know what? I may not have a wife… but I have friends. Friends who sometimes make me laugh so hard I can't breathe, friends that sometimes leave me in tears… but I'm not alone." He might have been, so easily could have been were it _not_ for the unabashed unconventiality of those friends. _So it took getting me drunk… and an attempted suicide…_ but it woke him to the fact that there were worse things than breaking convention… that there were things worth taking risks for. "And the reason I _do_ have friends… is that I dropped the goddamn perfect attitude and started behaving like a person. So I haven't got the rank… _yet_. Even if I never get farther than Lieutenant… even if I never get out of the armoury… I'm happy. More so, now, that I know I _did_ make the right decision. I am not Father… I was never meant to _be_ on the ocean. So I broke with tradition… big deal. The world didn't end because of it." Actually, the world might end because he _didn't_… especially if the Expanse kept, well, expanding. _With no Enterprise there to stop it…_

"Friends." This came infused with as much acid as 'she.' Of course Reed would belittle the idea – not only did he apparently not have any, but he believed – like Father – that they were somehow a sign of a weak personality. "You weren't brought up to be someone who spends time with his 'mates' in the pub. You were brought up…"

"What part of 'happy' didn't you understand?" Looking at Reed, probably not any of it. "In case you haven't clued in yet… that 'upbringing' wasn't exactly optimum. And friends are more than just 'mates' in a pub… they're people who'll give you a hand up when you need it… people who'll help keep you from going under… and sometimes just make sure you've got your head screwed on straight, and that you haven't got it up your arse. Your 'subordinates' may be willing to give you their all because it's your duty, but friends will give you more than that." He'd never realised that, before… not consciously. But by fitting in… he was able to get more respect… get more done. _I don't _have_ to go through channels to ensure that the Chief Engineer – who outranks me – will do me a favour. All I have to do is ask him_. And sometimes not even that… sometimes Trip just pitched in, regardless. "Strength is not solitary. Anyone with _any_ kind of chemistry experience can tell you that alloys are stronger… that people working together can do more than one person working alone."

He straightened up, keeping an eye on the pipes as he did so. "Now, if you don't mind… I have a command to get back to. I believe there are some refinements that can be made to the E-M barrier I invented." He added the last as a final devastating shot, and turned away. _You haven't accomplished _anything_, have you? I've invented force-fields, designed Tactical Alert protocols… and you haven't managed to do a goddamned thing._ He didn't even blink when seconds before the darkness turned to light, he heard a single sharp explosion, because he knew that it would have come regardless. Reed had been down there for that very purpose – Malcolm didn't kid himself. _Maybe now you'll have some peace, you poor bastard_. Besides… it was a might have been – a might have been that he avoided a long time ago, by doing something he'd thought he regretted. _There but for the grace of God and angels… now, you crazy bugger… where are you?_


	3. Mayweather Shipping

Chapter 3: Mayweather Shipping

_The best things in life are free  
But you can give them to the birds and bees  
I want money._

-The Flying Lizards, The Best Things in Life

There never was a democracy yet that did not commit suicide.

-John Adams

"Trip's in trouble. It must be Thursday," Travis muttered under his breath. Not that there was anyone around to hear him. _All alone._ Not that he minded. Shore leave _was_ to get a break - especially a break from your fellow crewmates. The captain and the rest of the crew might not understand that. But the Boomer in Travis knew a thing or two about personal space. _Like that it's necessary. _

Travis rather liked caves, despite the fact that almost all of his friends swore that nothing good could come out of them. Growing up on a ship had gotten him used to confined spaces. In fact, he found the open air much more intimidating. There, things could come at you from any direction . . . the unpredictability of it. Not that he minded unpredictability . . . _Adventure is my middle name._ But sometimes . . . the worse thing that could happen to you in a cave was a cave-in. Out in the open . . . there were things like . . . like butterflies. Jesus, he could go his entire life without seeing another one of them, Those creepy little antennae like Andorians without the friendly shade of blue. And the way they could suddenly decide to fly at your face . . . talk about unpredictable. Travis gave an involuntary shudder.

He swung his flashlight around behind him, just to make sure none of the little monsters had followed him in from the field of wildflowers outside, noticing the mud-caked footprints on the smooth grey of the cave floor. Surely, this was Trip and Malcolm's idea of a joke. Travis refused to believe that this was another shore leave botched. He just would not accept it. _Denile is a river in Egypt. Yesiree._

Yes, this was a perfect shore leave. All he needed were a couple of ham and turkey sandwiches, and it would be perfect. Any minute now, Trip and Malcolm would jump out and give him a premature heart attack, then he could go back to his butterfly-free rock climbing and be done with it.

God damn the sub-commander and her 'anomalous readings.' The only anomalous readings Travis cared about were the gravity-distortions caused by the size of certain parts of her anatomy . . . and like _that_ was going to happen. Rumor had it that she and Trip were the ones doing the horizontal hand-jive, and he was not one to step on his commanding officers toes. Besides, like he stood a chance against the man who seemed to channel the spirit of Don Juan on a regular basis.

"If he can get a Vulcan into bed . . ." Travis muttered, inching carefully forward. "He should be able to find his way out of a . . ." Then his foot landed on something that made a hollow clang . . . _like deck plating._ ". . . cave?" That last word sounded more like a squeak then anything else.

"Trip! Malcolm! This is _so_ not funny! I want to get back to my rock-climbing guys! You're going to pay for this!" There were so many 'accidents' that could befall not-so-innocent officers crawling around doing repairs.

Hey, since when was the cave lighted by that orangey glow that they used in cargo ships when trying to make the florescent lighting not look florescent? Travis blinked, and whirled around, focusing his now-useless flashlight beam on what had once been the cave entrance behind him. All he saw this time was an orangey corridor with fancy designs -like Van Gough's Starry Night- in the deck plating.

"Who has the balls to claim I have to _pay_ them?" A voice echoed down the tunnel-like hallway, seeming to multiply in its menacing intensity as it came toward him.

Travis stepped up to a door extending to the right, cautiously, not really looking forward to meeting the owner of the voice. _Another shore leave ruined. God damn you, Trip Tucker!_

He leaned timidly forward, peaking around the open doorframe into a room with a large mahogany desk, completely covered in PADDS and photoframes. A great leather chair, facing away from him -_of course-_ dominated both the desk -despite its size- and the two rather pathetic green plants that seemed to cower in the corner. Travis recognized the single picture that the high backed chair was silhouetted against. It was an original Rixal-Bowden. The half-human painter from Draylax that painted with her . . . well what were they supposed to do with the third one, anyway? He kept a reproduction of this very print in his quarters, but he'd never even had the luxury to _see_ an original.

"Come in! I haven't got all day!" The oddly-familiar voice boomed from the chair.

Oh well, what did he have to lose? _Your head._ Travis ignored his insecurities. This was nothing if not an adventure. And the chance to meet the owner of a Rixal-Bowden! He must have actually met her, because she only signed off on sales personally. And she signed with her . . . "So who has the audacity . . ." The figure in the chair spun around . . . to reveal . . . _Oh my God, it's me!_

It must be time travel. _I'm going to own a Rixal-Bowden!_ Time travel was the only possibility. _There are clearly not two of me in this universe . . . and this me looks a few years older . . . especially in that flowing golden robe . . . and that hat! When do I lose all my fashion sense?_

The other Travis seemed to be taking the whole thing pretty well. His eyes were narrowed an his nostrils flaring, but he didn't seem at all surprised to find his doppelganger standing in front of him. Still, Travis figured he owed him as much of an explanation he could give at the moment. "Hello. I'm . . ."

"I don't give a Rigellian mud worm's sucker who you are. You can turn your admittedly-handsome self around and march out that door, and then you can tell Nexcorp to kiss my ass, because the Vissian government isn't going to buy it." The Vissians? They were lucky they weren't at war with them. How did I get so buddy-buddy with them when my buddy. . . "Tell those morons that they _see_ DNA, so no matter how good their plastic surgerized clones are -and you're the best yet, believe it or not-, they're never going to get the contract!" Travis was surprised at the steely anger in his voice. Despite all the time he spent with Malcolm, Travis still hadn't got the whole 'menacing' thing down. In a few years time, he seemed to have mastered it, though.

"I'm not from Nexcorp!" Travis yelled. Nexcorp was Earth's biggest trade franchise, he'd cut off his right arm before he'd ever work for them, They kept buying up merchant family ships, or flooding their routes with faster and more standardized freighters where the crew spent most of the journey in stasis.

"Oh, so now the little fish are trying to take me on, are they? Well, tell whoever you work for to watch out, I bite."

"I'm not working for anyone! I'm Travis Mayweather of the Starship Enterprise."

"Nice try, Mr. _Mayweather_." The man gave him a sneer. _I learn how to sneer too?_ "But, if you're not out of this office in the next five seconds, I'm going to initiate my security procedures. Meaning, anyone who's not the real Travis Mayweather is going to be vaporized."

Travis crossed his hands over his chest and stood his ground. He _was_ Travis Mayweather, so he had nothing to worry about . . . right?

"Well, they may be making them better-looking, but they're sure-as-hell not making them smarter," his other self murmured. "Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one." He sounded nonplussed.. "You leave me no choice." And with a melodramatic sigh, he flipped up a clear plastic cover and pressed a larger red button. There was a flash of blue light and a high-pitched whine. Travis winced, but he was still standing there when the bright spots had disappeared from his eyes.

"Well, I'll be damned. This one's genuine!" Where did he pick up the criminalesque drawl and the melodramatic arm waving? _Wait . . . arm waving?_

Before he knew it, his phase pistol was drawn and pointed at . . . well . . . himself, "Keep your hands wh . . . where I can see them!" _Wow, I guess I can kind of do menacing . . . except for the stutter._

"Woah, woah, woah. We are getting a little bold, for a minion."

"Look. I'm not from any of those companies. I don't care about contracts and doppelgangers. As your security system already proved, I'm Travis Mayweather of Starfleet."

His doppelganger rose slowly from his seat, somehow managing to look twice his size, despite the fact that Travis knew him to be exactly five eleven. "Starfleet has no jurisdiction here. You boys already had your chance, but we proved that peaceful exploration without the proper_ commercial_ motivations is even more ineffectual than centralized government." He laughed, advancing on Travis until the phase pistol was pointed directly at his chest. Okay, so maybe the time-travel theory was bunk. This Travis sounded almost like a . . . capitalist. _And there is no chance in hell, I'll ever . . . _"I bet you don't even have the . . . bankroll to shoot me."

Travis sighed, "I don't want to, believe me. I just want some answers."

"Well . . ."

"Without having to find out the nuances of your backup security system."

"Clever boy." He plopped back into his large, but not particularly comfortable looking armchair.

"Well, I didn't grow up on the E.C.S. Horizon and learn nothing."

"Hey, I . . ."

"Yes, we're the same person, right up to that time we locked Nora up in the airducts and were forced to eat ration packs for a month."

"I still don't think my stomach's recovered."

"But it was worth it." They chuckled in unison.

"The look on her face . . ." Capitalist Mayweather said soberly. "Who are you?"

Why did it always have to be the hard questions? He was twenty-nine, did people really expect him to know who he was? "I'm you . . . only, I'm guessing, I joined Starfleet and you didn't."

"Damn right, I didn't. I couldn't just leave the family! I spent my whole life on the Horizon running trade routes, and I was good at it. I wasn't about to leave and join some organization of posers who think that just because they throw more money at technological development, that they understand space better." Obviously, there was a great deal of resentment toward Starfleet in this universe. It sounded more like something Paul would say . . . like he _did_ say when Travis came home to visit. It was all jealousy. Or at least, that's what Travis told himself at the time.

"You didn't always feel that way, though?" Travis fought to keep it from sounding too much like a question, but failed miserably. He had always admired Starfleet, even when his family was doing their best to 'persuade' him to stay on-board. And it wasn't just for the adventure . . . he believed in an organization independent of commercial interests. Maybe it was na•ve . . . his other self definitely thought so . . . but Travis believed that Enterprise could - no, Enterprise _had_ acted as a better representative of the human race, than any freighter crew ever could.

Other-Travis lowered his shoulders in a familiar slump. "No, I suppose not. But after what happened . . . it's hard not to take Starfleet as anything more than a joke."

"What do you mean?"

"The suicide-ship?!"

"What?"

"You really are from some parallel universe, aren't you? They had no less than five suicides in the first three years. Started with their armory officer . . ."

"Malcolm?!" Sure, Malcolm could get a little moody, but he was too concerned with his fellow crewmembers to actually do it. Travis remembered teasing him about his unerring ability to try to sacrifice himself for the greater good. And making him promise to stop and think about all the people that cared about him before he did anything rash. Malcolm promised to _consider_ them . . . that couldn't have actually made a difference . . . could it?

"Yes, that's it: Malcolm Reed. Granted, that one was a bit ambiguous . . . didn't hesitate to kill himself when pinned to the hull by a mine. Some people still hail him as the model officer." His other self obviously didn't think too highly of the act . . . or of those that supported it. "But then there was that woman, the former child prodigy." He couldn't possibly mean Hoshi! "Boyfriend dumped her and she sealed herself in the airlock . . ." So Hoshi had been a tad bit . . . well, hysterical, when she and Rob broke up, but Travis had taken her up to the sweet-spot with a few bottles of the ill-gotten Andorian Ale . . . and that had taken care of it.

"And there was the Engineer . . . his sister died in the Xindi attack. At least he was creative - rewired the air-circulation system in his quarters to start pumping carbon monoxide. And then the two people from stellar cartography that tried and failed to kill the pilot, Anderson, I think it was. That one was a double." Alternate Travis didn't seem all that sympathetic.

"Wait, they took _Anderson?!_"

"Yeah, I heard he was a real SOB. Had to be if people were plotting to kill him, right?" His other self chuckled. It wasn't funny. Anderson had been in Travis' class at the academy - the epitome of the testosterone overdosed flyboy/rock star. Travis couldn't remember a second spent in his presence during which _he_ didn't want to kill the guy. _No wonder. Archer must have been really desperate._ Well, they did ship out for their first mission last-minute, maybe he was forced into it. One of the most infuriating things about Anderson _was_ the fact that he actually had the go behind the show. "Us boomers have been living together on ships for years . . . but put a bunch of the so-called best and the brightest together in a confined space to stew and the nutters take over in a few years. Starfleet's nothing more than a joke. We got a kick out of it, despite the fact that it proved the Vulcans right. Besides, they grounded the whole freak-show after that. Attempted homicide isn't something even _Starfleet_ can take lightly."

_Grounded? _"But what about the Xindi?!"

"The joint Vulcan/Vissian task-force hammered out a settlement with the Xindi Council. Mayweather Shipping has a trade contract with all five species."

Travis gulped. He couldn't believe it. Mayweather Shipping? The Vulcans actually _doing_ something? With the _Vissians_? "The Vissians?"

"Please tell me you've met them in your universe . . . Captaining the Horizon, I initiated first contact with them - got exclusive trading rights. Mayweather Shipping now has 57 freighters running between Earth and Vissia Prime, and that's not counting our diplomatic barges. The ruling council likes me to be there to facilitate any negotiations with Earthgov. Hence the paranoia, for which I apologize. I'm a very important man." Travis fought the urge to regurgitate upon hearing those pompous tones coming from his own lips.

"But . . . the Vissians . . . have you ever met one of their Cogenitors?" Travis didn't care what the captain said. When he'd found Trip crying in the sweet spot, he knew whose side he was on. There was a difference between keeping an open mind and allowing blatant injustice.

His other self obviously didn't share his opinion. "I think I might have, once . . . though Mareel has explained to me that we might need to sign up for one if we have even a hope in Hezelab of having kids."

"Wait . . . you're . . . married?" His alternate self nodded, and Travis nearly fainted. He was twenty-nine, he wasn't ready for _commitment!_ "Happily?" he asked, hands shaking. He felt trapped, like these metal walls had suddenly turned to jailbars. Married? He didn't care if it was in an alternate universe - the thought was still damn scary.

"She's the Prime Minister's daughter." His alternate-self replied evenly. As though that answered it. Travis rolled his eyes. Just then, the comm panel fitted flush into the mahogany of the desk began to buzz. "Can I take this?"

"Be my guest." Travis flung his arms wide. God forbid his other self should miss a _business_ opportunity.

Business-Travis pressed a button on the earpiece Travis hadn't realized he was wearing. "Mayweather. No . . . I'm not posting bail . . . you have to get yourself out of your own messes, learn a lesson for once . . . well, obviously you didn't learn it . . . Mayweather Shipping does not support smuggling, and that's . . . don't argue with me . . . do you want me to hang up? . . . I thought not. Now, listen very carefully because this is the last time I'm going to say it: pull your life together, because I'm not going to keep stepping in to catch you . . . you are no longer a captain of one of my freighters and thus no longer my responsibility . . . I don't care if you _are_ my brother!" With that, the earpiece went flying against the wall where it shattered. His other self didn't seem even the slightest bit perturbed, however, because he pulled a spare from his desk drawer and slipped it comfortably over his right ear.

"Was that Paul?"

"Yep. Lazy bastard."

"You're not . . ."

"Of course not. Like it or not, he _is_ family. I'll let him stew in his own juice for a day or so and then bail him out. Send him to rehab back on Earth this time." _At least I still have _some_ integrity._

His double gave a rueful sigh. "Don't tell me. _Your _life's perfect."

"No, it's not. There haven't been any suicides on my Enterprise . . . but that doesn't mean things aren't tough. We're close, but with rank and everything, it's hard to make it a family. And I miss Mom and I wasn't even there when Dad died . . . and Paul . . . well, we both know he wasn't a born captain."

"But you're happy?" His double seemed skeptical, yet almost desperate to believe that somewhere, someone was happy.

Travis chewed on his lower lip for a second. Sure, he was still pretty aimless for a twenty-nine-year-old . . . no steady girlfriend . . . no lifeplan . . . he still hadn't found a favorite movie yet, something Commander Tucker (Casablanca) and Lieutenant Reed (The Fall of the Spanish Armada, the 2113 version) found hilarious for some untold reason. Still, he was happy this way . . . so happy, in fact, that if he were being completely honest with himself, he would admit that he was afraid to change. Beyond the haze of his denial, he could see a future. Perhaps it was time he grasped it. "Yes, I'm happy." He even surprised himself with his confidence. "And you?"

"I could do without the meetings and the constant wine and dine and the people trying to impersonate me. But there are days when I come home and Mareel's not in one of her moods and we sit under the moons and just talk - trade stories and watch the stars . . ." His voice trailed off into a wistful sigh ". . . and I can just remember what it might be like to be happy."

"But at least you're rich and famous, right?" The more time he spent with him, the less he thought of his double, but that didn't stop him from trying to cheer him up. Apparently, he had a knack for suicide-prevention.

"And I got to meet Jeian Rixal-Bowden. That woman sure has a lot of . . . talent." His double winked. _And I'm already living back in the 'good 'ole days.'_ "I've got another one of hers in the guest room off the garden."

The garden? "Wait, we're not on a ship?"

"Nope. I designed Mayweather Manor pretty convincingly though, didn't I? Even had them run the electricity under the floor to give it that slight hum. Mareel doesn't like it much, but she's the reason I'm stuck here on Vissia Prime, so she's obligated to deal. I actually find the sunlight pleasing these days. I had the gardeners fix the tomatoes so they taste just like the hydro . . ."

Travis let his double's monotonous drone fade into the background, sure that it was more to convince Capitalist-Travis that he hadn't thrown his life away than anything else. _I used to feel bad about abandoning my family for 'the establishment' but not only am I unhappily married to a member of a race of immoral aliens with bad fashion sense, but I'm living on LAND! I don't care if I did get to meet Jeian Rixal-Bowden, I don't regret it for a second._

Travis turned to walk back the way he had come, hoping that his double would be so involved in his monologue that he wouldn't notice. Travis wasn't the kind of person who could evaluate sweeping political claims of whether or not free-market capitalism was better than 'unbiased' government bureaucracy, but he knew he was happier in a world where he put his values first.

Not that that stopped him from being supremely pissed off for the interruption in his shore leave._ Trip, Malcolm, you guys are still going to pay. And not with money, either!_


End file.
